


With a whimper.

by Anihan (Nakagami)



Series: Jim and John, and Moran watches on. [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Female John Watson, Gen, Jim Being Creepy, Jim was not, John was raised right, Kid John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-04
Updated: 2013-07-04
Packaged: 2017-12-17 18:06:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/870422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nakagami/pseuds/Anihan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Johann has just been kidnapped and taken to live with James Moriarty. She calls him Jim. He calls her John. He dresses her in pretty white dresses. She tries to be polite. </p>
<p>Jim is happy with the situation. Johann, not so much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With a whimper.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the second of a series of oneshots involving a young female John Watson and an alternate universe Moriarty. This ficlet picks up the day after the last one ends.

¥

 

There is something almost wrong about the way Johann can feel the surveillance team watching her unpack her new belongings. _No,_ she reflects after a moment, _not "almost" wrong._ She had just unpacked six dresses that Jim had bought for her. Five of them were knee-length, the last one shorter, mid-thigh. All of them were white.

A shiver transverses her spine. There's _definitely_ something wrong with this situation. She just can't be sure what that something is.

The room is warm and furnished, done precisely to the likings of most newly teen-aged girls. If Johann had shared more predilections with other girls her age she would have been quite happy here. As it was, she wasn't precisely unhappy either. It was...nice. A bed and an armoire, three bookshelves and a bedside table, and an artist easel in the corner, all for her. The easel was already adjusted to her height, almost as if it were made for her.

Almost as if the entire room had been made for her.

"John," comes the quickly-becoming-familiar voice of Jim Moriarty. He always has a funny sing-song sort of voice, if he wasn’t purring or whining. Like a child. Right now it was the purr. "How are you liking it here?"

She jumps.

Of course she does! The man hadn't made a sound before speaking up from directly behind her. He smiles at her shock, and she scowls back at him. _Who takes pleasure in scaring someone like that?_ she thinks, uncharitably.

Then she remembers her manners and smooths her face over to a blankly thoughtful look, struggling to keep it neutral. "Hello," she manages.

Jim's smile widens.

Johann clears her throat and bobs a little curtsy, just as Jim had told her to do in order to be ladylike. _Wear dresses, be ladylike, stay in this room. My new holy trinity._ "I am doing well, Jim. Thank you for..." She pauses, not sure how to politely phrase this next bit. She settles on, "For allowing me to stay in your house. For the time being."

Jim's smile widens a little further. It's almost as if he's suggesting she doesn't know how long 'the time being' will be.

Which she doesn't, but that's not the point.

Point is, Johann's here now, and as long as Jim treats her right, she should be thankful. Thankful means being polite and curtsying when necessary. So she curtsies again and turns back to her unpacking.

"Do you like the outfits?" he asks. He is standing much too close behind her and Johann freezes with both hands buried in the fancy lace and cloth.

She extricates herself and puts on another smile. Her lip wavers. "They are all white," she comments. It's the nicest thing she can think of to say. "And fancy," she adds, referring to quality.

"Of course they are," he says. He steps closer and ends up crowding her against the armoire. She isn't intimidated by this but it does mean she has to look up to look him in the eyes, which she does. "I think the light suits you."

Johann hesitates, but she figures it is safe to point out, "I said white, Jim. Not light. The clothes are white."

"Yes," Jim says. He's smiling like... like something Johann doesn't know about, some animal she's never seen before. "I know."

A wave of tension ratchets up her spine.

A slow smile crosses Jim’s face. "There's no need to get upset, John. You're doing fine."

He reaches past her to bring out another dress. The seventh. White, mid-calf. He shakes it out a bit and puts it on a hanger, unlike the others that Johann had been folding. She hadn't seen any sign of a closet and the space inside the armoire was already filled with coats and fancy suits.

"You would know if you weren't," he adds.

And that... that almost sounds like a threat. Hell, it _does_ sound like a threat. Johann steps away from Jim and looks down at his hands, preferring to keep them in sight. Her left hand is shaking for some reason.

"I'm not upset," she lies, then qualifies it by saying, "I'm more worried. The... person... who brought me here..."

"Moran," Jim supplies. He looks amused to see her struggle for words. He looks amused to see her struggle at all.

"Yes, Moran." She clears her throat. It still feels difficult to talk. "Moran didn't say how long I would be here for.” She pauses. Clears her throat again. “And you haven't either."

A glimmer of dark amusement suffuses Jim's face. He smirks, and talks in that sing-song voice he has when he's trying not to laugh. "Oh, are you ready to leave _already_? We've hardly had any fun at all!"

The voice puts her on edge. Johann snaps, in a mocking sing-song to match his, "Will I be able to leave _at all_?"

The silence that descends then isn't a very good silence. Jim's breathing is loud and becoming more labored by the moment. The blood rushing in her ears deafens her to everything but Jim's ragged in-and-out cadence, and she feels a bit light-headed, dizzy, near-blind with the blood rush. His hands don't leave the dress but he hangs it on the edge of an open drawer. The hem trails on the ground.

Johann flinches when he moves. He smiles at that, gentles his expression, and moves again until both of his hands are cupping her jaw, her cheeks, her face, bringing her line of sight up until he can look her in the eyes without obstruction.

She stares at him. He leans down. She can taste his breath and, for a moment, she feels insanely glad that he isn't a smoker because it almost looks like he's going to kiss her.

Which he does, but it is perfectly chaste. His lips meet and part from her upper cheek on the left side of her face, then again from the right side, and when he pulls back his expression is entirely beatific.

“No, John. You would never leave me.”

 


End file.
